


(we're howling in the ring and we're) coming for blood

by nothing_left_sacred



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Dubious Consent, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Unicorns, spermpire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2592545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_left_sacred/pseuds/nothing_left_sacred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek had told him that vampires aren't real. Had rolled his eyes and made it seem like Stiles was the ridiculous one for even asking.</p><p>Stiles had been adamant about checking. Because werewolves, seriously.</p><p>And every fucking other creature under the sun? (or... not under the sun.) Present and accounted for.</p><p>Vampires?</p><p>'God Stiles, they don’t exist!'</p><p>-</p><p>Or the one where Stiles fucks up real bad and becomes a spermpire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started writing this a little under two years ago (next level writer's block); whatever season that was. At one point my mind stopped processing canon and just became this headcanon land of sunshine and daisy where no one died and the pack just does pack-like shenanigans all the time. If you've read my other works, it's a similar deal. 
> 
> Some notes about the content of this story more specifically are: There is some non-con/dub con in here. Seems to be my fallback for main 'driving plot point' overall. Essentially, as a spermpire, Stiles needs to feed to survive. On sperm. Random dudes' sperm. Ergo, it's not the best set-up for him. This is a trope I've seen a few times before, and decided to try out.
> 
>  
> 
> Also I belated realized that in copy-pasting this from google docs got rid of all of my italics, and because I'm lazy as hell, I'm not going to fix it :3 Also, this is unfortunately unbeta'd.
> 
> Enjoy!

Of fucking course it was a unicorn.

The only upside to the whole situation was that Stiles hadn't been required to spend endless nights vested in fruitless research on what the monster was. 

Instead, he’d taken on look at the bloody-mouthed beast lurking at the edge of the Hale property’s tree line and made an educated guess.

The horn was a major tip off.

“Does he look hungry to you, or is that just me?” Stiles questions lightly, eyeing the heaving white flanks of the horse-creature. It’s otherwise blindingly crystalline horn appears to be dripping with blood. As do its teeth. It’s surprisingly sharp looking teeth.

Really though, it was disconcerting how often he was finding commonly held truths about mythological creatures to be fundamentally lacking.

“Looks like he’s just eaten, actually.” Scott quips, looking smug at himself as Stiles rolled his eyes and elbowed him in the ribs.

“Well, at least we know what’s been goring those bodies that’ve been turning up.” Stiles always tries to look on the bright side of things. “What do you suppose about that bit about it being attracted to virgins?”

Scott tenses beside him, dropping into a crouch as the unicorn swung it’s head around to face them. “I’d say that’s a theory that would be better worked out in a more controlled environment.”

Stiles snorts, but begins backing away, hand reaching into a pouch of mountain ash, readying himself as the unicorn drags its front hoof against the ground in a move that cannot be mistaken for non-threatening behaviour. “Just when I thought I might finally have a tactical advantage.”

“Advantage is one way of looking at it.” Scott scoffs, the mocking in his tone belying the way he was radiating tension. He moved to cover Stiles more fully, and Stiles smiled at the back of his best friend’s head.

“I’m going to throw up an ash barrier in front of us, but I want to you call for the pack. They should be near enough to flank this asshole.” Stiles was already dropping into his own mind, feeling for the spark that flared inside of him, latching on to the iron-clad will he had been developing. 

Scott let out a deafening howl as the unicorn tossed its head and began its charge across the clearing, and Stiles spared no time letting the mountain ash fly from his outstretched hand, his eyes flaring a sharp white for a moment as he crouched low to the ground behind Scott, trailing his index finger in a straight line against the earth, and bending the airborne ash to his will.

It settled in a line equidistant from the unicorn to them, and Stiles had a moment pride for himself in the execution of such an advanced technique, before it was quickly shattered as the unicorn went barreling over the line, its powerful muscles shimmering in the dusk light.

Scott snarls as it crashes towards them, flinging Stiles away from him before darting forward to try and slash at its flank. 

Stiles dragged himself to his feet and started to turn to run, knowing he would be next to useless in this fight, if not an actual detriment to Scott’s maneuverability.

His breath caught as he heard Scott’s snarl of frustration behind him, followed by a truly desperate cry of “Stiles!” 

Stiles knew he shouldn't bother looking behind him. He could hear the gaining thunder of the unicorn’s hooves hitting the earth behind him. Drawn to virgins, indeed.

But suddenly the thunder halted, became syncopated and halting, and Stiles’ body went cold as he heard the sharp exhale of breath followed by a keening whimper. He stumbled, faltering in his flight as he looked sharply over his shoulder.

“Scott!” Stiles’ legs failed him, and he went crashing to the earth as fear froze his limbs. He could feel his eyes widening in terror, his chest constricting as he felt the panic setting in.

He fought to breathe, he fought to claw forward, towards Scott.

Scott, laying pierced through the side and left bleeding on the ground, helpless as the unicorn stomped in triumph over his pain wracked form. 

Stiles dragged himself to his feet, mindless of the sights and sounds of his pack converging on the beast, snapping and snarling at it from all sides until it fell back and away.

Stiles fell to his knees at Scott’s side, eyes wide and tears spilling unchecked down his cheeks as he watched the colour steadily leaving his best friend’s face. His shaking hands stripped off his own shirt, pressed it tight to the wound on Scott’s side.

“It’s not healing, it’s not closing. The wound isn’t healing why the fuck isn’t it healing!?” He whispered, shaking his head in vehement refusal because his best friend wasn’t going to fucking die. “Scott, please. Oh God Scott, why the fuck do you have to be such a goddamn hero?!”

Stiles’ eyes broke away from Scott’s face only when he felt larger hands cover his, pressing down against the wound more surely. Red eyes locked with his for a moment, before moving to assess the damage.

Derek was covered in blood, his hair matted with it, but it seemed to be all from the unicorn; none of it his own. Stiles spared a moment to breath out a sigh of relief, knowing that Derek had protected them, had killed the beast. 

It was more than Stiles could say for himself.

“I think it’s magic. The horn must have properties that stop healing.” Derek theorized. His expression looked grim. “At this rate, the blood-loss--”

“I’m going to heal him.” Stiles stated calmly. Derek looked up sharply as the teen pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open. 

“Stiles, what the fuck are you doing?” Erica gasped behind him as he dragged the edge of the knife along the length of his forearm. 

Stiles yelled and struggled as Derek reached for the hand holding the blade, pulling it away from his skin with a dangerous snarl and a dark look clouding his features. “Stiles, you know blood magic is dangerous. Deaton warned me that you've been looking into it, and if you think that I’m going to sit here and let you use it--”

“Fuck you, Derek. I’m going to fucking use it.” Stiles bit out. “I’m going to do anything and everything in my power to make sure that Scott lives. Now give me back the knife.”

“No, Stiles!” Derek barked out, eyes glimmering red as he pressed pure alpha authority into his tone. 

But Stiles wasn't his beta, and wasn't cowed by overt displays of dominance. “Good thing I carry an extra then.” 

With a grim smile, Stiles pulled out the spare blade and ran the edge quickly up his opposite arm, gasping softly at the feel of dull pain as the wounds began to bleed out more fully. 

He quickly shut out everything around him. Everything but the feeling of his spark and his will. He dug deep into the wells of his power and very carefully moved to press his hands against Scott’s wound, pulling his blood soaked shirt away from the site, letting his blood and Scott’s mingle fully. 

Through the haze he felt hands on him, on the bare skin of his torso, on the tops of his hands where he was pressing and channeling his own life’s energy into Scott, willing the wound to close, to heal and to spare his friend. The pain of the blood magic was slowly being siphoned off of him, and he felt dizzy with the rush of blood, magic, pain and its absence. 

The feeling of flesh mending beneath his hands made him shiver, a smile pulled tiredly at his lips. His breathing was becoming more and more laboured, but he could feel the life growing slowly inside of his friend, the stuttering beat of his heart becoming a steady thrum.

Scott felt whole.

Stiles came down slowly, his eyes gradually losing the bright, shimmering light of his magic as he loosened the force of his will. He smiled down at Scott’s owlishly blinking face.

“Hey, buddy.” He said softly.

And then he passed out.

0o0o0o0o0

Stiles could truthfully say he’d never felt such bone-deep weariness, let alone such euphoric contentedness ever in his life.

Feeling the two simultaneously was stretching his perceptions of the world.

He was perfectly warm and cozy, and could honestly say without even opening his eyes that he knew he wasn’t in his own bed just based on the threadcount he could feel in the luxurious bedspread beneath him. 

That and the incredible hard bicep he had his face mashed into, or the almost-blistering heat of a werewolf-metabolism-infused body curled up tight behind him really served to tip him off.

Now, at this point in his fucked up mess of a life, it wasn’t uncommon to wake up at the bottom of a puppy pile. But this was different. The room was completely silent aside from the soft breathing he felt hissing out over the skin of his neck, where Derek’s face was buried.

In the span of 5 seconds from waking up, Stiles’ heart rate flared uncontrollably before he could put a lockdown on his reaction. He was sure that if he had any blood left in his body, he might have a bit of a problem.

He starts flinging the covers back and away from himself, barely noticing his own bandaged wrapped arms, with pink stains already coming to the surface when his eyes land on the arm that Derek has planted inplaceably across his chest, hand firmly over his heart.

His whole arm was black with ropey tendrils of pain.

Derek had been leeching him the whole night. 

Fucking martyr.

“Don’t try to get up, Stiles.” Came the hoarse murmur from behind him as he was bodily pulled back down, face re-mashing itself against Derek’s bicep.

Stiles sighed wearily into the smooth skin there, and would have rolled his eyes if he could keep them open. “Is Scott okay?”

Derek gave a grunt that Stiles optimistically took to be an affirmative, and the arm wrapped around him somehow seems to tightened.

“We almost lost you, though.”

Stiles’s feels his blood go cold in his veins as a sudden feeling of guilt pours through him. In all of his years of knowing Derek, he doesn't think he’s ever heard the older man sound this pissed.

“You directly disobeyed an order of mine in the field.” The alpha continues, and part of Stiles wants to bristle at that, but he feels completely overwhelmed at how intimately Derek is whispering his disappointment; how he can feel the tightly reined emotions under Derek’s skin. “The pack all heard the moment when your heart stopped beating.”

Stiles shivers and counter-intuitively tries to burrow closer into Derek, to hide his face more fully in Derek’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

Derek growls so softly behind him that Stiles more feels it then hears it, “What you did was completely irresponsible. You put yourself in danger as well as doing something that Deaton has made very clear was off limits for a reason, something that will put a blight not only on your soul, but on Scott’s as well.”

Stiles’ eye flashed open as he felt Derek starting to move, slowly extricating himself from the bed and pulling completely away. He let out a hiss of pain as everything the werewolf had been keeping away flooded back and his arms began throbbing brutally. 

Rolling slightly onto his back, he looked up to catch a glance at Derek’s back as he walked towards his bedroom door, and paused there for a moment.

“Don’t let me see you trying to involve yourself in anything like this ever again.” He turned his head half to the side, so Stiles could just make out the terse line of his mouth in his profile. “Am I understood?”

Shivering, alone and in pain on Derek’s slowly cooling high thread count sheets, Stiles dropped his head back against the pillow and choked out a broken “Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Just--fucking, please.” Stiles huffs, his lips gasping in short breaths as he arches against the wall. The air is cool in the alley; a sharp contrast to the humid heat that diffused the air in the club he’d just left. There was a constant thrum of thundering bass inside that had seemed to permeate through a heady fog of want and lust and carelessness. Stiles was glad to be out of it, his drunken flush diminished somewhat by the sharp contrast of cold and shocked silence as the back door slammed closed behind them.

Stiles is on his knees in an instant, mouth already hot and open to press sloppy, drunken kisses against the harsh denim of the man’s pants.

Stiles fumbles, shaking fingers trying to catch at the zip, his mouth still open with a needy whine breaking the silence of the summer night. A hand slips under his chin, pulling his eyes up and away, to actually look at the guy he had been about to suck off. This stops him, but only just. His fingers don’t fall away, but cup hastily at the growing bulge hiding under the material.

“You really like sucking cocks, don’t you?” Comes the causal question. Stiles raises an eyebrow in disbelief, before making a frustrated noise.

“Would I be on my knees if right now if I didn’t?” He questions, snarking to cover the sudden bout of nerves that slipped through his inebriated carelessness. Turning his attention back to dragging the man’s zipper down, he pushes the material aside and uses long, drunk-clumsy fingers to pull a hard cock out. 

Stiles feels saliva pool under his tongue, and his eyes flash up quickly to catch the man’s face before he presses in, mouth tilted to slot along the long line of cock in front of him, his nose flaring as he catches the sharp heat of the scent of arousal. His eyes close shut in an indulgatory moan.

The man runs a cursory hand through Stiles’ hair, and leans more fully back against the wall of the club, adjusting his legs a little to give Stiles’ easier access.

Taking that as a go ahead, Stiles’ presses the flat of his tongue to the base of the man’s cock, running it up to trail around the foreskin at the top. His teeth come out to catch the loose skin with a quick teasing nip before he’s sucking the head of it into his wet mouth with a messy slurp, his tongue swirling and wetting the head, allowing thick lines of saliva to escape his lips, making them glisten.

The wet heat of the spit makes gliding down easier, Stiles had figured out early on using his dildo at home. The same proved to be true of real cocks, though this is only the third he’s ever had in his mouth. He pushes down until the thick head of the man’s cock presses against the back of his throat and he lets it rest there for a moment, feeling it heavy on his tongue and near to choking him as he breaths so, so carefully through his nose.

Stiles’ eyes trace up the man’s torso, easily catching that shadowed gaze where the man is clearly staring at him. 

He looks awfully calm for someone who has their dick in someone else’s mouth, and Stiles is mildly affronted by this.

He lets his eyes drift shut and really gets into it. Pressing the flat of his hands on the man’s thighs, he lets his mouth open wider and pushes down; down and down, taking the cock so fucking deep inside him he can feel it in his throat, cutting off his air and making his eyes water just right, so that his nose is pressed into the dark curls at the man’s base. He can feel the drool coming out of his mouth, making him feel sloppy and slutty.

He loves it.

There's a hiss of pleasure from above him as he deep throats the man’s cock, his mouth stretched obscenely wide, making his lips red and slick. Stiles starts moaning with it, letting the smooth drag of the cock along his stinging lips get him riled up, make him ache in his own too-tight jeans.

Stiles is getting into it, pace fast, breathing laboured and movements rushed, fueled by the panicked lack of air when suddenly the hand in his hair is pulling him off, and Stiles is too fucking drunk for this.

He whines, disoriented and annoyed, fumbling to push the man’s hands away to get his mouth back onto his cock. He’s had a terrible fucking week, and getting drunk and making poor life decisions is how he wants to cope with it. He just needs a fucking moment to himself, to let go, just leave it all behind and have something for him.

“Please.” He chokes out, because he’s more than a little bit inarticulate right now; his throat is burning and his mind is swimming.

“You really like it that much?” The man asks, looking at him consideringly.

“Yes, fuck.” Stiles bites out. It’s barely a lie. He likes the release that comes from sex, even as much as he hates the fact that he has to go to such lengths to get it. Because the asshole he’s in love with will never want him back. “Can I get back to sucking now, or do you have a thing for orgasm denial?”

The man laughs, but doesn’t let go of his hair, despite Stiles’ pawing. Stiles pouts. “Do you like having cocks in your mouth enough to want to do it forever? Are you that hungry for it?”

Stiles almost rolls his eyes, and huffs, “Yeah, I really, really love cock, please put it in me, I can’t live without it.” He says in his most sickeningly cheesy porn voice, just to get this guy to shut the fuck up.

“I hope you meant that.” Is all the man says, and then Stiles is free, his mouth wrapping sloppily around the guys leaking dick again, hungrily sucking him down until there’s a flood of cum in his mouth making him choke.

But the guy holds him there, makes him swallow it all.

And when Stiles pulls back, coughing and crying, still hard and an inch away from coming, he looks up into the man’s face and he must be really fucking plastered, because he thinks he sees the man’s eyes flash completely black.

0o0o0o0

 

It’s only when he’s at home that night in bed, having walked off enough of the alcoholic haze on his way back from the club that he feels his stomach coil in on itself.

Because he’d just drunkenly sucked off some random guy from a club.

And he hadn’t used protection.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles lays in his bed and considers his life choices the next morning.

They’ve been, on the whole, pretty fucking terrible.

But among things like: looking for a dead body in the woods, kidnapping Jackson, trying to solo those alpha twins last summer (and somehow succeeding?), being Scott’s best friend, et cetera, et cetera...

Having unprotected oral sex with an unnamed older guy while illegally drunk in the back alley behind a bar kind of took the fucking cake.

Stiles didn’t want to get up. He wanted to languish. Forever. Wallow for eternity.

Possibly crawl in a hole and die of mortification.

He was the Sheriff’s son, for fuck's sake. He was Melissa McCall’s honorary child. He knew so much better than this. His slowly deteriorating life wasn’t really an excuse to pull shit like this, no matter how fucking pathetic he’d felt at the time, how much he felt like he’d needed the release, to get drunk and let loose.

He was a fucking idiot.

But he desperately needed a shower, so around 11 in the morning the Saturday after The Worst Decision of Stiles Stilinski’s Life, he managed to haul himself out of bed.

Avoiding looking directly at the mirror because he honestly couldn’t even face himself right now, Stiles shuffled into the hot, steamy spray and frowned at the wall, hating everything in the world.

Dragging a hand roughly through his hair, he let out a loud and frustrated breath.

He had no one to blame but himself for his stupidity. Sure, he wanted to unwind. Sure, he’d felt like complete and absolute utter shit since Derek had basically told him to fuck off out of his life. 

Sure, he was acting like an angsty, petulant ass by throwing himself at anyone who looked even slightly tall, dark and handsome in some ill-considered attempt to get the idea of Derek out of his system.

Waking up in Derek’s bed had felt so fucking good in those first few moments, but Derek clearly thought he was the biggest idiot alive, so fuck that line of thought.

He was done wasting his time being in love with unachieveable people. 

But from now on he should strive to be somewhat less... impulsive about how he deals with the shitstorm that is his love life.

He scrubs vigorously at every part of his body, paying the most attention to his face, neck, and hair, trying to rid himself of the dirty feeling that clung to him despite everything, and when the water finally began to run cold, he knew he needed to get ahold of his shit and try and deal with any of the repercussions of his sheer idiocy.

So he pulls back the shower curtain--

And blinks at his reflection.

Stiles is frozen, staring at the naked, dripping form in the mirror across from him. He quickly runs a hand over his eyes, trying to wipe the water away and perhaps clear his fucked up vision because what?

Yes, that was a person who looked, for all intents and purposes, like a 17 year old boy called Stiles Stilinski. Same moles, same slim build with light musculature, same dark hair and brown eyes.

But he was also.... prettier. More...radiant from some inexplicable internal source? Holy fuck.

He had no other way to describe this bullshit but that he looked fucking drop dead gorgeous.

Not to get him wrong or anything, since he’d come to terms with the values of his own attractiveness as while ago. It wasn’t classic beauty, but he was pretty damn fine in his own right.

But there was a difference between a quirky, somewhat cute Stiles and a preternaturally, inhuman allure.

As he looks closer, truly focuses on himself, the eyes staring back at him slowly bleed black; iris and whites blacked out completely. And it looks more than kind of cool, and more than kind of fucking terrifying.

“What the fuck is my life?”

0o0o0o0

He spends hours looking over his body from top to bottom.

No bite marks, no weird sigils, no growths, no traces of magic dust, no inexplicable, mysterious signs that would help him figure out what the fuck was going on.

He does have some evidence of healing capability, as he'd managed to nick himself shaving and watch it heal in the mirror right before his eyes. But he’s not willing to test it vigorously to see how far this new skill might go. But aside from his eyes changing colour at will apparently; nothing.

He lets out a yell of frustration into the empty house, thankful his dad had been working a double, and hits the books. Hard.

Grimoires, bestiaries, wiki-fucking-pedia.

He doesn't know what was wrong with him. He could be fucking anything at this point. All he knows is that he was pretty, as the possible result of sucking a guy’s dick. And wouldn’t that be his life. Magical powers via a good dicking.

Googling “what happens when i become pretty after sucking a guys dick” hadn’t worked.

So he calls Scott, because they've been friends forever, and Stiles had totally had to deal with Scott's shit when he'd turned into a magical creature, and now it was his turn to ante up and return the favour.

“Hey buddy!” Scott says happily into the phone. Stiles is honestly surprised he’d answered. Wonders never cease.

“Yo.” Stiles greets back, still scrolling through useless pages of the scanned version of the Argent Bestiary. “I need some help. Like, supernatural bullshit help.”

“Oh damn.” Scott curses, and yeah, there’s a resigned note in his voice that’s become commonplace by this point. “What’s up? Anyone dying?” Which is a legitimate concern, when Derek had almost been killed by a pair of traveling hunters last week after a showdown that somehow involved pie. Stiles was sorry he'd missed it, but he'd had finals.

“Not yet.” Stiles grimaces. He’s considered the possibility that he might end up hurting people, depending on the nature of the beast he is now, but again, Scott had totally tried to eat him once; he was owed favours. Many favours. “I just need you to come over and smell me.”

“The fact that that statement isn’t weird to me right now speaks volumes about our lives.” Scott laughs, but it's more than a little pained.

“I know, right?” Stiles laughs right back at him. “Fuck. Look, just come over in about five minutes, I’ll make us some brunch. Try not to kill me when you get here.”

“Uh... okay.” Scott promises incredulously, but with an unfortunate note of understanding. “See ya.”

0o0o0o0

Scott lets himself into Stiles’ house, because they are well past that point in their relationship.

Scott finds Stiles standing in the kitchen, staring down at the two plates that hold the specialty bacon, egg, cheese, and tomato breakfast sandwiches that Stiles is totally famous for.

“What’s up, dude?” Scott asks, because Stiles is doing some serious sandwich contemplation right now.

“I’m not hungry.” Stiles says, and it sounds a bit like a revelation.

“That’s okay.” Scott hedges. “I can eat them both?”

“No one doubts that.” Stiles agrees with fond exasperation, but it sounds kind of nervous. “But... I should be hungry. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.”

Scott looks at him consideringly, taking in how Stiles seems completely normal. He’s wearing a green t-shirt that has a triforce on it, and a pair of regular black jeans, and a pair of socks that don’t even come close to matching. His body language is still the same.

He does smell a little off. Kind of like sex. More than a little like sex. Try capital S ‘Sex.’ Awkward. Totally not bringing that up.

And he might look a bit... prettier?

“Do uh...” Scott begins, and Stiles turns around to look at him. Yeah, definitely prettier. “Do I make you hungry?”

Stiles looks at him, really looks at him. And yes, this is his best friend, who is perfectly okay with the idea that Stiles might want to eat him. That, right there, is friendship. Stiles sighs, picks up both of the plates, and moves to the dinner table, motioning for Scott to sit down before putting both plates in front of him.

“The short answer is yes.” Stiles starts, and that is a fucking revelation he never wanted to have. They had a pact. Friends don’t eat friends. But Scott smells virile; heady like he’d make a good meal. Stiles has flashes to the hunger he’d felt last night, kneeling at the random man’s feet as he’d sucked his cock into his mouth. The feel of his thick, burning hot come sliding down his throat, over his lips. Looking at Scott makes him want to get on his knees. “But not right now. I’m... not hungry.”

Because mostly, he’s feeling full right now. Contented.

“So do you have any idea what you are?” Scott asks, nonchalant between stuffing his face full of food. Stiles more than kind of loves Scott.

“Not a fucking clue.” He sighs, and Scott just nods sagely.

Because they’ve both been there.

Now Stiles just has to figure out what kind of being lives off of sucking cocks.

He hopes he’s a succubus. Succubus would be so easy.

0o0o0o0

Of course it’s not that easy.

Succubi are the result of a demonic possession. And he’d tried a few exorcisms, a couple dashes of holy water (which he keeps on hand after that incident with the demonic five year old who’d been killing unsuspecting people in their own homes disguised as a girl guide selling cookies.) Incubi, are, of course, the same shit, so that rules them out too.

Fuck.

He’s been avoiding the whole pack (minus Scott, but especially Derek) for a whole week now, which is easier to do, since it’s summer now. But still, his excuses are beginning to become more than slightly ridiculous and its only a matter of time before one of them drop in on him unsuspecting, and he doesn’t know what he is yet, and he’s not entirely sure he won’t end up accidentally hurting them. Or... eating them. Thank fucking God his dad doesn’t seem to make him hungry at all, and since he’s been holed up in his room playing video games for a week straight, he hasn’t had any other human interaction.

So he begs off, and tells Scott to keep away. 

Because as the week goes on, he’s getting progressively hungrier.

0o0o0o0

By Friday night, he’s mad with it. He’s made no fucking progress figuring out what the fuck he is and he’s done. He’s probably going to kill someone tonight, and he’s going to hate himself for it.

So he drives himself, alone, to that area of Beacon Hills everyone whisperingly jokes about having all the crack whores with the missing teeth, parks his car about a mile away, and sets himself up on a street corner, waiting for a john in the most provocative clothes he owns.

It’s a matter of fifteen minutes before a man is pulling up beside him, window rolling down, and it takes all of Stiles’ willpower to not grimace when he offers Stiles a ride. He gets in, tells him to shut up, and leans over the central console.

The man seems surprised when Stiles just tears open his pants and takes his still mostly flaccid cock into his mouth, but it doesn't take more than a few seconds for him to get his shit together, groaning and encouraging Stiles, eagerly fucking up into his mouth.

It’s mere minutes before he’s coming, a pathetically small amount, which Stiles eagerly sucks down.

Some part of Stiles is satisfied on a primordial level, ripping more enjoyment from the hot trickle of cum smearing over his lips as he licks it off, chasing the man’s spent cock for the last of his seed than Stiles ever felt in his short 17 years of living.

The rest of Stiles desperately wants to vomit.

He gets himself the fuck out of the car, despite the man’s protests, falling to the curb in his rush. He scrapes his knees and the heels of his hands because his eyes are blinded by the hot tears that are threatening to fall. He runs, panicked breathing making him sound loud in the otherwise quiet night, and collapses beside his jeep because his fingers are shaking too hard to get the key in the door to open it.

But he’s not hungry, anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

Derek had told him that vampires aren't real. Had rolled his eyes and made it seem like Stiles was the ridiculous one for even asking.

Stiles had been adamant about checking. Because werewolves, seriously.

And every fucking other creature under the sun? (or... not under the sun.) Present and accounted for.

Vampires?

God Stiles, they don’t exists!

He was fucking right to call the bullshit of that statement. Because vampires? Fuck you, they do exist.

And he fucking is one.

It was just a problem of translation, as a lot of things are. Vampires in the traditional sense were a no-go. The whole burning in the sun and crucifixes thing didn't pan out.

So in that way, Stephanie Meyer was actually probably the closest to being right. Which was the saddest thing Stiles had ever thought in his life.

But here, in Dionysius the Areopagite`s lesser known De immanis creaturis, which Stiles has the pleasure of reading in the original Latin, it says that Vampires survive off of vitae essentia hominis.

Which, when translated, means man’s essence of life.

Stiles can see how this passed down to be interpreted as being the life blood of a man. But with his new insider knowledge...

Sperm kinda makes sense too.

So yeah, he’s a spermpire.

0o0o0o0

Stiles is determined to keep this to himself.

The last thing he needs is the teasing. Erica would have a field day. God only knows what Jackson would do. And Peter... would be new levels of inappropriate.

That and... he doesn’t really want anyone to worry about him. It’s his problem to deal with, and he’s damn well going to make sure it doesn’t become a problem for the pack (or his father. The Sheriff will never know about this. Ever.), because they have enough of those as it is.

Nevermind how much it gives him a gut-wrenching feel of shame; what he needs to do to survive now, as a result of his new supernatural curse. Werewolves didn't have to live with some secret need to feed of the flesh of babies or anything. If they did Stiles would be infinitely less cool with Scott having been bitten, but as it is, Stiles is having a hard enough time resigning himself to the reality of his situation. And it's just one more secret he plans on keeping.

He's pretty fucking good at that now.

The only flaw with this plan, of course, is that Derek is a fucking nosey asshole.

That creeper vibe he had a going on? Yeah, still there. Only now Stiles knows what it’s really about. He was a fucking busybody who needs to be all up in everyone`s business. All the time. When you're least expecting it.

“Holy shit--can you not?” Stiles eeps out, but he is so far past throwing himself bodily out of his chair like he used to. He should not be accustomed to a man breaking and entering through his bedroom window. Even the betas are fully house trained by this point. His dad isn’t home, so there’s literally nothing preventing Derek from using the door. “What?”

“I haven’t seen you in a week.” Derek points out, frowning and arms crossed as he leans against the window sill. “You smell off.”

Stiles stares at him, because subtly, thy name is not Derek. He opens his mouth to throw the hound off the scent, as it were, but--

“You are aware that Scott is incapable of lying.” Derek continues, leveling Stiles with what is definitely his ‘cut the bullshit, I’m the Alpha’ look. “And that only makes what’s going on more suspicious.”

“Are you genetically predisposed to not being able to ask questions? Seriously, is this a medical condition? A psychological block? I’m actually worried. You worry me. A lot, for many different reasons.” Stiles asks, pointing viciously at Derek’s looming form with the uncapped pen he had been chewing on as he took notes on Old English episodes of monsters in Epic Sagas like Beowulf. God, he never wanted to run into a creature like Grendel, and especially not his mother. “Also, I seem to remember you telling me that you never wanted to see me again.”

“Are you genetically predisposed to dissembling and avoiding questions?” Derek counters, leaning forward and pointing his own finger back at Stiles. This was the level of argument they had reached; childish finger pointing. “And that wasn't what I said.”

“I would only be avoiding a question if you were actually asking me a goddamn question.” Stiles hisses out, eyes narrowed and pen stabbing getting more and more violent. “And that is totally what you said.”

“Stiles.” Derek bites out, eyes flashing and muscles tensed as he seems to try and reign himself in. “What. is. wrong. with. you.”

Stiles lets out an explosive huff, eyes rolling hard. He swivels his chair away pointedly and stares at the open copy of Beowulf in front of him on his desk, heart hammering despite himself. “You left out the question mark at the end of that sad attempt, I think. And I'm not inclined to answer you either way, considering how you seem to think I'm a liability to your pack. Why do you care, anyway?”

Derek is growling at a low register by now, and Stiles is completely unsurprised when the alpha is up in his face, nose flaring as his hands forcible swivel Stiles’ chair back around so that Derek can cage him in and loom all the better. Stiles desperately tries not to look at the line of his shoulders were the fill out the simple grey t-shirt he’s wearing in deference to the summer heat, or to even make eye contact, because seriously--

“I’m worried about you. More than usual. And if you had been listening to me, you would know that's why I don't want you showing up to fights. You almost died last time.” Derek says, and his eyes are deadly serious where they’re fixed on Stiles’, because Stiles just doesn’t have the willpower to not fucking look at him. “But you are still an important member of my pack, and nothing will ever change that. Now, I want to know; is anyone threatening you?”

Stiles raises an incredulous eyebrow and crosses his arms. “I am perfectly capable of defending myself.” He snarks, huffing at Derek’s still looming form and the man's incredulous eyeroll. His foot taps nervously against the floor. “...Most of the time. I'm getting pretty handy with magic you know.”

Derek eyes flash red as he huffs out a frustrated breath. “You’re in trouble and you’re trying to hide it because you don’t want us to worry, or you want to protect us. Don’t deny it, I know you, and this isn’t the first time you’ve tried to pull this shit. I’m trying to protect you Stiles. I need to. Because you’re important to me. So tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“That... Still wasn’t a question.” Stiles breathes out, his voice catching in his throat because fucking Derek. When did this asshole turn into a sappy, caring, incredibly good looking, delicious smelling--- fuck fuck fuck. “I’m fine.”

“Lie.” Derek bites out, lips pulling back from his teeth like a wolf scenting prey. Stiles’ hammering heart sounds loud in his own ears. Derek is awfully close, filling Stiles’ vision, filling his head and Derek is all he can smell. He’s losing control and he doesn’t like it.

“Fuck you, Derek.” Stiles spits, defensive. “I have a right to keep secrets, in fact at this point I’m fucking amazing at keeping secrets--” And they’re piling up, pressing against his lips, all the lies and secrets, the newest ones, of Stiles on his knees in the alley, getting into a man’s car off the curb, his shameful hunger--

“Stiles.” And suddenly there is a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly before coming up to curl loosely around the shuddering column of his neck as Stiles fights for control, because Derek is so close, and smells so good and he can’t fucking know because that would break Stiles. It would fucking break him. “Breathe, Stiles. I have you; I’m here for you.”

“I know.” Stiles chokes out. “I know, I just--I can’t okay? I can’t tell you. So please, please just leave it?” Stiles gasps out, feeling his throat close up as sobs threaten to break from him, as he thinks about the relief he would feel, just to let go and have Derek help him. But Derek would never—could never want-- “Please go.”

Because Derek would help him. He was Stiles' Alpha and Stiles knew that Derek would do everything in his power to make sure Stiles was okay. He would offer himself; would feel obligated to let Stiles kneel at his feet and press his cock into his mouth over and over again but he would never feel the way Stiles felt about Derek, the way he wanted Derek despite this new hunger.

He could never live with himself if he had to spend the rest of his life having only a mere shadow of what he wanted; a taste that kept him alive as a shell but never nourished him as he truly wanted.

A Hell on Earth, of his own creation.

Derek is looking at him, pressed so close that Stiles can see just how fucking sincere his eyes are, the look of broken hope that hangs over him. His hands are hot brands on the skin of Stiles' cheek and neck, where one single tear has fallen that Derek is wiping away, the other pressed against his fluttering pulse, his body curled protectively around him.

And then suddenly he’s gone, and the window is open to the cool summer night air.

And Stiles is alone with himself. And his terrible life choices.


	5. Chapter 7

Stiles spends more time with the pack, now that the unsaid rule to not bring it up is there, and it would be okay. If Derek stopped fucking looking at him like Stiles was about to break.

Stiles goes out to feed on Friday nights and is forever looking over his shoulder, terrified that someone has followed him; that someone would see him like this. He drags himself home at the small hours of Saturday mornings, and hasn't felt this horrible about lying to his dad in his life when the man looks at him and asks what`s going on, because at least he had been doing something right before, helping his friends. But now he has to worry about hiding the bruises on his face that don't heal fast enough, the puffiness of his lips, the wet, rough patches on the knees of his jeans.

He'd thought about going steady, getting a boyfriend, at least a fuck buddy. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, so he’d have to settle. He could do that.

So he’d asked a guy named James out, someone he’d met at the club who he was actually able to carry a conversation with for more than five minutes. The first few dates had gone well enough, and they’d even got to second base (much to Stiles’ pleasure).

But then Stiles was witness to the most ridiculous series of events since he’d watched the movie Parent Trap with Scott to research ways to fuck over the douchebag guys trying to date Ms. McCall back in grade 7 and somehow get the Sheriff to marry Scott’s mom.

The fucking betas had smelled James on him.

Erica had had her face in his laundry basket when he came home from one of his dates. At fucking midnight, on a Wednesday.

“Stiles.” Erica had him pinned against the wall in seconds, nosing at his neck where, yeah, James had been kissing him. And despite Stiles’ ‘no marking’ rules, clearly he hadn’t had a chance to shower off the scent. “You’ve been dating!?”

Stiles coughs, and pushes her roughly away, but Isaac and Boyd are there in his room too, judging him from his computer desk and bed respectively.

“Your point?” He asks, crossing his arms defensively, staring up brazenly into her doe-brown eyes, because her crazy ass stilettos give her a crazy height advantage on him. He is not cowed in the slightest by this.

“Oh, Stiles.” And there is a seriously disturbing grin on her face. “Don’t you think we should meet this mystery man? He needs our approval.”

“No. Nonononono.” Stiles states, shoving her back. The slick smile on her red lips doesn’t drop, just widens.

“Oh yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!”Erica counters, taking swaggering steps back with promise gleaming in her eyes. “This is going to be so much fun!” And before he can even protest, they betas are up and out his window.

“Fucking hooligans!” Stiles yells after them, feeling entirely too old for this shit. He fondly thinks of the betas as children in his own mind much of the time, but sometimes reality scarily reflects this feeling.

Stiles sighs, too tired and sated to give a fuck at this point. It’s not like he even gives a shit about James anyway. He can always find another boyfriend. Maybe.

0o0o0o0

He and James are out at makeout point, because let it not be said that Stiles is a class act.

The windows of James’ sleek black Charger (totally compensating) were steamed up already, Stiles having put up with James’ attempts at a sexy makeout session for just over 10 minutes. Stiles had been watching the clock, eyes flicking to it almost constantly as James tried to kiss the shit out of him.

He couldn’t help but wish that James had a little facial hair, wondering what it would like to have his skin rubbed raw, or to feel sharp teeth tease little whimpers from him where they hovered over his pulse point, waiting to claim--

What he got was James trying to breath sexily into his ear and tell him what a good boy he was.

Stiles made a face, and started reaching for James’ belt.

And then there was a sharp howl from literally right beside the car and James jack-knifed up, eyes wide like a startled deer.

Stiles shut his eyes and sighed in resignation when something heavy landed on the roof of the car, followed by the truly gut wrenching sound of metal being torn; because yes, someone was clawing James’ car.

“What the fuck-- what the fuck!?” James screeched, head snapping from side to side as he tried to figure out what the fuck was happening. “Holy shit, oh fuck oh fuck.”

Stiles watched lazily as James started the ignition in a panicked flurry of motion, and quickly set the stick shift in reverse, peeling out of the lot like demons were chasing him. Which they were. Stiles could hear them laughing.

Pressing his face against the cool glass of the window, Stiles tried to ignore the wild expression on James’ face as the man came closer and closer to the brink of a breakdown, the whites in his eyes making him look insane. He hoped the man was okay to drive, in this state.

“Drop me off at home.” He bit out, pissed at having come so close to a meal only to miss out because of his fucking betas. They were going to have words.

0o0o0o0

“That guy was a total fucking creep, Stiles.” Erica informs him as he steps into his room a mere 10 minutes later, from where she is lounging on his bed in a pile with Boyd and Isaac. She’s contemplating her nails in a nonchalant manner that set Stiles’ teeth on edge because he was hungry and not in the least amused. “We totally followed him around all week and all he did was go to the gym and watch porn.”

“He doesn’t even have a job.” Isaac says with disdain dripping from his tone, his own sprawl indolent, as though he hadn’t just run here all the way from terrorizing a poor human more than a couple miles away. “And he has a small dick.”

“I don’t want to know how you know that.” Stiles mutters, flopping angrily into his computer chair. Boyd was looking at him a little too consideringly for his tastes. “And I was aware of his character flaws. What makes you think our bond didn’t transcend that? I’m totally not cool with this cockblocking thing.”

Erica aims a truly unladylike snort at him, “You deserve so much better than that asshole.”

And then, of course, Boyd speaks up. “What I want to know is why you were with him at all?”

Stiles levels him a dirty look, mixed with a bit of pride, because Boyd is one intelligent motherfucker, who totally gets Stiles; especially when he doesn’t want him to. “Maybe because I’m tired of being alone.”

It’s not a lie, but he’s more than avoiding the truth. It works well enough though, with the pitying looks the betas are sending him.

“Awww, Stiles!” Erica croons, launching herself off of his bed to wrap him in her arms. Her golden hair gets in his face, and Stiles halfhearted blows it away. “We’ll totally help you find the man of your dreams!” And yeah, she’s totally got that scheming look on her face again.

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Stiles mutters.

0o0o0o0

“What about that one?” Erica asks, her chewing gum forming a bubble before popping in front of her cherry red lips as they lurk the mall, her eyes watching like a hawk for prey over the rims of her aviators. Because werewolves clearly had a dress code, which necessitates that they be dressed like sad cliches in leather and aviators eternally. Stiles follows her line of sight and rolls his eyes dramatically, tossing her a seriously? look.

“He's wearing uggs. Man uggs. In summer.”

“Oh.” Erica voices flatly, eyes dropping quickly to assess the man's feet. “Wow, yeah. Nevermind.”

“What about him?” Isaac attempts, pointing at another dude. “He has a Batman shirt on. That's something in common, right?”

Stiles looks at the taller beta archly, brows raised and lips compressed. “I assure you, that dude has never read a comic in his life.”

“How do you know?” Erica asks, her own look incredulous. “You can't seriously tell just from looking at him.”

“I totally can! He has a tan. Look at him. No self respecting nerd has a tan. Also he has Jersey Shore hair. Not okay.” Stiles offers, arms crossed belligerently as he leans up against a wall with the two betas flanking him like some terrible posse. A posse whose dress code he doesn't fit. He must look terribly out of place with his Horde t-shirt, plaid shorts and flipflops.

“That is kind of true, you know. You're really fucking pale. You look like a goddamn vampire, even with all that lacrosse practice.” Isaac muses, head turned to look at Stiles appraisingly.

“It's a hidden talent of mine.” Stiles assures him, trying not to be too obvious about reacting to the joking vampire comment, but Erica just snorts.

“We can totally smell the sunscreen you drench yourself in. You're just a secret ginger with delicate lily-white skin.”

“That was an incredibly creepy way to describe my skin, Erica. I don't suppose you've been reading the Twilight novels?” Stiles teases, and by the way she looks shiftily away, he knows he's hit the mark. “That's just sad.”

Suddenly Isaac is in his face, sunglasses removed and studying him intently. “Yo, you totally have freckles.”

Stiles makes a warbling sound at the sudden invasion of personal space and flails away, shoving at Isaac. 

“Personal space bubble!” He still hasn't quite gotten over how appetizing Isaac smells, and tries to keep as a far as socially acceptable away from people as he can, to stop from tempting himself. Which is next to impossible with how handsy werewolves are in general, what with all the scent marking and lack of social etiquette. It's Thursday, and his appetite is already there and Isaac is making his mouth water.

But then Erica is bodily mauling him, arms thrown around his shoulders as she clings to him from behind, burying her face in his neck in an impromptu scenting session, probably at least partially influenced by the pheromones Stiles figures he generates to lure prey inadvertently at his spike of want for Isaac. “I don't know what it is, but you smell so hot lately. And look it, too. For a secret ginger anyway.”

“Eck!” Stiles grunts, trying to throw her off, but suddenly he's in a beta sandwich as Isaac plasters himself against his front, nosing the free side of his neck. “Freckles are hot. But yeah, you do smell different. Derek told us to shut up about it, but it’s... really distracting.”

Stiles shudders as Isaac runs his nose up the side of his neck, the sensitive skin there prickling as he feels saliva pooling in his mouth. The urge to drop to his knees is getting overwhelming. Erica moans softly behind him, and he knows he need to get the fuck out.

“We've talked about this!” Stiles squeaks out. “No PDA scent-marking. It's intensely weird. Seriously. Stop that!” He shoves Isaac's face away when he feels the other teen's mouth open against his skin.

“But you smell so good.” Erica whines, pouting at him, but backing away. Isaac's eyes are wide and dark when he looks down at Stiles. Stiles feels his own eyes threatening to darken in response, to go pitch black and inhuman as a mark of what he's become. He takes a deep breath and steps away from the two of them, heading for the exit.

He can't let himself slip up. Not in front of them. The shame would be unbearable, and he can hardly live with himself as it is; letting random strangers fuck his mouth in order to survive.

The two betas whine forlornly behind him, scampering to keep up. The sharp click of Erica's heels follows him, and Stiles isn't at all surprised when her hand slips into his.

“Sorry.” Isaac whispers from his other side, and Stiles shakes his head, holding his other hand out for the taller boy. He knows how much touch means to pack, and he's been too reticent lately. It's no wonder they're trying to spend so much more time with him. They'd formed strong bonds during the affair with the alpha pack last summer, and Stiles didn't want to lose that because of the nature of his curse and his fear of intimacy.

“No, it's okay.” He sighs, turning to smile at Isaac reassuringly. “I just need some time to get my shit together.”

Isaac nods gently, and Erica's hand squeezes tight around his for a second, and Stiles feels the bond he's developed with them over the past few years pull at his heart because he knows they've got his back.

But he also feels hungry, and that fucking terrifies him.


	6. Chapter 6

“A little bird told me you're having relationship troubles.” Lydia says airily, breezing to sit down beside Stiles as he, Allison, and Scott sit eating well-deserved ice cream out back of the Hale house in the simmering heat of a summer's eve after a spectacularly hot training session. Stiles might not need to eat real people food, but he sure as fuck isn’t going to pass up on ice cream.

Stiles frowns mightily at her around his spoon of heavenly hash. He intently licks the utensil clean and then replies with dripping sarcasm; “It's hard to have relationship problems if you aren't even in one.”

Lydia snorts delicately, her arch look so keen it should be patented. Stiles tries to look archly back at her, and only succeeds at making Allison giggle at his face. He shoots her a hurt look, and takes another scoop of ice cream.

“If you were to ask me--” Lydia begins.

“Which I didn't.” Stiles interjects, stabbing his spoon defensively at her.

“I would say that you're an idiot.” She continues smoothly. She tosses her hair behind her shoulders and it catches the light. The summer sun has already brought out the hints of red in her hair more than usual, but Stiles can't say he feels anything for the display of extreme attractiveness other than the vaguest of appreciation.

He's all for the cock now, it seems. Exclusively.

“How is that new?” He pouts, entirely accustomed to Lydia's constant need to upbraid him for his various fuck ups. She was constantly keeping him on his toes, which he was grateful for. They had become stellar study—buddies for both the SATs and their forays into practicing magic.

“It's specific to this situation, ergo it merits repetition. However, I find you egregiously idiotic in this circumstance.” Her green eyes are fixed on his as she drives her point home by stealing his bowl of ice cream.

“Whoooa, calm down the SATs lingo, Lyds.” Stiles smirks, but nonetheless resigned to allowing her victory over his dessert. It was melting anyway. “But please, do explain?”

A wellshaped brow rises and Lydia very subtly coughs and turns her attention to look at Derek, who has just come from where he had been finishing up handing Boyd's ass to him.

Wearing exactly no shirt and dripping with what can only be described as the most intensely mouth watering scent on the planet, Derek straddles the picnic bench he had built with his own hands, because apparently he's a handy motherfucker. Right beside Stiles. With no shirt.

Stiles shifts over slightly, and as he looks sketchily away from Derek's looming body he catches Lydia's smug gaze. Stiles immediately shoots her a disgruntled and entirely sarcastic 'as-fucking-if' look and rolls his eyes.

“I was informed that you were dating a man named James Huntington. I took the liberty of getting Danny to look into his criminal profile.” Lydia continues, because she is Satan incarnate. Stiles rues the day he ever declared eternal and undying love to her perfection.

“You really didn't have too. We aren't even dating anymore. And we weren't really serious anyway.” Stiles hedges, biting his lip. “At all. Ever.”

“You are aware that he was in juvenile detention for 2 years. And that he has, most recently, been drawn up on a breaking and entering charge, petty theft, and 6 speeding tickets? Which he hasn't paid. Because he doesn't have a job.” And Stiles is actually dying of mortification now. He hadn't bothered looking into James' past because he had been looking for quick sex, for an easy fix to his fucked up problem.

For some intensely stupid reason, he chances a glance over at Derek.

Derek's eyes are red, his nose is flared, and Stiles is pretty sure he's steps away from actually committing murder. Bloody and deeply violent murder.

He let his head drop into his hands.

“You were dating someone?!” Scott finally cuts in, staring at Stiles with huge eyes and apparent accusation for Stiles having kept said thing a secret from him. Stiles just turns his head and glares at his best friend, trying to communicate with just his eyebrows how much he did not appreciate Scott's shit.“Oh, its because of the-- I mean, yeah, that's cool man.” Scott hurriedly added, not looking suspicious at fucking all.

Stiles groans and buries his head deeper into his hands. He had been doing such a good job of keeping it a secret before those meddling kids had butted their heads in. He catches Erica's eye from across the backyard and gives her a look that promises revenge. She just gives him a Cheshire grin in return, licking her lips lasciviously as her eyes flit between him and Derek. Clearly the betas had been planning this shit. Parent Trap indeed. He shoots Isaac and Boyd a nasty look for good measure.

Sharp as ever, Lydia zeros in on what Scott hadn't said. “Because of? What?”

And yes, everyone is definitely staring at him intensely now. At least Scott looks somewhat contrite.

With a sudden derisive snort, Jackson pulls up beside the picnic table and quips; “Probably because Stiles was desperate to finally get rid of his virginity.”

Stiles has never been more livid at and thankful for Jackson's supreme douchbaggery than in that moment.

“Can I please go die in a corner now?” He begs, a whine threading his tone as he tries to unleash his own version of puppy-dog eyes on Lydia, who is literally dissecting him with her gaze as though he was a particularly intensive SATs study manual that she had to tear apart at the seams in order to get into MIT.

He didn't appreciate that particular look, but it was better than looking at Derek, who he could literally feel the tension coming off of.

“No.” Derek says tersely, standing from the bench and turning to his betas even as his hand drops heavily on Stiles' shoulder to pin him in place. “Go for a run.”

The betas collectively shuffle in spot and cast unsure looks at each other, but Derek had clearly entered into no-bullshit-alpha-mode, so one flash of the eyes later and they are all well past the treeline.

Stiles gives them up for the cowards they are.

Lydia however, turns a petulant and challenging glare up at Derek, almost daring him to pull the alpha card on her. Allison looks unsure, eyes darting between the werewolf and the human girl and clearly having a hard time deciding who would win in a fight.

Of course, Stiles is vehemently yet silently betting on Lydia.

But then Lydia's look turns discouragingly considering, and she nods her head in the most slight deference Stiles has ever seen, managing to look regal in her acquiescence as only Lydia could.

“I need to burn off all that ice cream anyway.” She says with a shrugs as she rises. She really doesn't need to, considering how she'd been training with the rest of them all afternoon and how excellently in shape she is on the whole. But then she levels a look at Stiles that more than clearly highlights her intentions to make him as uncomfortable as possible by literally feeding him to the wolves, so Stiles just frowns at her, and may or may not stick his tongue out. “Let's go, Allison.”

At least Allison gives him a reassuring smile as she rises and breaks into a quick trot as Lydia follows at a much more sedate pace than the betas into the Preserve.

Derek’s fingers tighten where they rested hot against Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles feels his breath hitch, but refuses to look at his alpha.

“Why don’t we take this conversation inside.” It wasn’t a suggestion. Stiles stands woodenly, and tries not to falter when Derek’s hand slips to the small of his back, pressing close as he steers the younger man up the back steps into the cool shade of the Hale house.

“I wasn’t aware we had started a conversation.” Stiles mutters sarcastically under his breath.

Derek moves away from him in the kitchen, going to the sink and helping himself to a glass of water. Sweat clings to his exposed skin as he leaned over, deltoids straining and stark as he cupped handfuls of water to splash against his face. 

Stiles’ eyes dart about uneasily, drawn to the tattoo on Derek’s back time and again as it shifts with the pull of moving muscles. Stiles knows about that tattoo; it’s history and meaning, how much Derek had wanted the pain of it to remind him of his past. It was a story that Derek had told him, finally, of his own volition, for once unprompted by Stiles’ incessant curiosity. Stiles remembers the awe of sitting there, next to Derek at his family’s grave, when he’d stumbled upon the man while visiting his own mother.

It was the first and only time he’d ever seen Derek cry. It was the first and only time Stiles had hugged him close and let himself cry too.

“Who you fuck is entirely your own prerogative.” Derek’s voice is tense, breaking Stiles out of his reverie. His whole body is one long coil of muscle as he looks out the kitchen window, facing entirely away from Stiles. “Your status in this pack notwithstanding, it’s typically an alpha’s job, his or her right, to veto possible relationships.”

Stiles bites his lip and looked down automatically when Derek turns, his red eyes burning into his skin. “They have to consider the potential threats to the pack, whether or not the person is worthy of being brought into the pack, whether or not our secret could possibly be revealed to an outsider.

“Because pack is everything.” Derek pauses, and Stiles feels his heart clench because he knows this now, and he feels how much of this was Derek’s regret for Kate. He can’t let history repeat itself.

Stiles nods, and breaths out an almost silent, “I’m sorry.”

“But I’ve always had enough respect for you to make your own decisions.” Derek continues, advancing on Stiles. “You know what it is to be pack. Fuck, Stiles, you’re the one who helped me become an alpha worthy of this pack. When I was ready to give up on Scott, on my betas, to use them for my own ends, to let them leave me because of how fucking terrible I knew I would be for them, you called me out on my bullshit and made me change, for the better. You know better than anybody how important bonds are.”

Stiles’ heart rate ticks up rapidly as Derek takes hold of his wrist, but still refuses to look up. “You were in love with Lydia for half of you life. You loved her not because she was beautiful, but because she was smart and driven and worth your admiration.

“So you can’t possibly tell me that after all these years of actually putting thought into another person, that you’re willing to sleep around with just fucking anybody, because that’s not you Stiles, and you and I both fucking know it.”

Stiles’ eyes shoot up in rage and defeat and guilt, catching Derek’s as he opens his mouth to protest, but Derek cuts in again, eyes fierce and presence dominating. 

“I promised you that I would stay out of whatever the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into, but I refuse to sit back and watch you throw yourself at random men. I’ve smelled them on you, week after week and I’ve sat back and watched you pull more and more into yourself, away from the pack.”

Stiles feels tears in his eyes as he tries to pull away, feeling Derek’s harsh grip only tighten further. “Derek, stop--”

“No, you’re worth more than this. You’re intelligent, resourceful, ridiculous and fucking strong enough to get over whatever the fuck happened to you, and I want you to stop trying to hide behind these walls and lies because you’re pack and that means that you can lean on us. We’re here for you despite anything, so let us help you.”

“You can’t. You can’t fucking help me Derek, this is my problem--”

“Stop fucking lying to me Stiles. I don’t need to be able to hear your heartbeat to be able to tell that’s bullshit. I can help you, you just won’t let me!” Derek was losing control, the humanity in his eye falling away as he snarls at Stiles, teeth lengthening. Stiles felt the sharp press of claws against the fragile skin of his wrist and fought to suppress memories of Peter.

Instead, he snarls back into the alpha’s face; “You’re right; I won’t fucking let you. And you should respect that I have my reasons not to let you. You don’t know what it would do to me. It would fucking break me, more than it has already, to let you or any of the pack help me.”

Time seems to pause. Stiles’ harsh breathing fills the room as he freezes, aware suddenly that his free hand has balled in a fist against Derek’s chest. His eyes flit between them, before closing, sorrow straining his brow. Derek’s eyes are wide, vexation writ large on his face, underscored with rage, disbelief, and finally, resignation. 

Stiles lets out a rough sigh, and pulls his hands away, removing all points of contact. He clutches at his wrist with his other hand, and turns away. 

He is almost to the front door, before Derek’s voice stops him.

“It broke me,” the words are soft, a confession. “Trying to become the alpha I needed to be, the pack needed me to be. It broke me, Stiles. But it was worth it, to be put back together again.”

Stiles pauses with the tips of his fingers on the cool brass of the door handle.

He grasps it, and walks out.


	7. 7

“I need your help.”

“Hello, Stiles.” Deaton says lightly, turning from the examination table and the tiny, mewing kitten he was checking over. “You’ve been practicing I see. You’re the only one who can sneak past my wards like that.”

Stiles shrugs, and presents his hand carefully to the kitten, allowing it to sniff him, a tiny tongue darting out a quick lick before Stiles traces his index finger over the soft fur of its cheek around to scratch lightly behind its ear. “What can I say, I’m a quick study. And I’ve been trying to live up to the pack legacy of stealthy arrivals and exists, for the added cool factor.”

“You’re still somewhat lacking a certain air of mystery.” Deaton noted with a sarcastically raised eyebrow. “Perhaps if you invested in a leather jacket...”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Stiles protests, hands out in front of him. “Since when do you get to be funny? You’re ruining your own schtick. I’m the funny one, and you’re the one who says all the vague and only slightly helpful stuff.”

“Slightly helpful stuff, is it?” Deaton echoes, scooping the kitten up into the palm of his hand, where it rested with tiny paws between his fingers, attempting to bite at the tips with petite teeth. Deaton smiles softly. “If you find me only slightly helpful, why did you come here looking for help?”

“Because I’m pretty fucking desperate right about now.” Stiles admits freely, walking around the examination table, letting his fingers trail over the stainless steel surface. He looks up beseechingly at Deaton.

Deaton catches his eyes with a look of understanding that unsettled Stiles at the best of times. “I was wondering when you’d come to me. Scott has been expressing his... concerns.”

A slight smile tugs at Stiles’ lips. “Of course he has.”

“I assume he was sworn to secrecy then?” Deaton asks with a small chuckle as he puts the kitten into a large cage fill with the rest of its litter. They run amok, teeming over each other with the frantic need to greet their lost brother. Stiles watches them as he nods off-handedly. “Why don’t you tell me about this problem of yours, then?”

“I assume you’ve heard of vampires?”

Deaton’s brow furrow as Stiles turns to gauge his reaction, “Do you mean pop culture or...?”

“The real ones.” Stiles clarifies, and feels his heart drop at the sudden look of pity in the vet’s eyes.

“Very little is known about true vampires.” Deaton begins, hesitantly at first, but not unwilling to share. “They tend to be solitary; they form almost no bonds of note, and as such have not accumulated much of a tradition, oral or otherwise. Hunters have never bothered with them much, because of the lack of threat presented by their way of life, and the relative lack of population. Aside from Van Helsing, of course, but if I had to guess, I would assume he was a bit of a black sheep of history. 

‘Some of the lore that I have come across speculates the origins of the vampire curse as being Greco-Roman, as a form of punishment in keeping with the stigmas of the ancient cultures relating to the act of fellatio at the time. It was meant to be ultimately degrading, and was typically used on captured slaves, as punishment.” Deaton concludes, arms crossing as he leaned back against the cabinets and watches Stiles with considering eyes.

Stiles issues a dark chuckle at the efficaciousness of the degrading aspect of the curse. He smiles wanly. “I don’t suppose there’s a cure?”

Deaton looks hard at Stiles. His eyes are apologetic. “Not that I know of. But I will look into it, for you.”

Stiles’ ‘thank you’ as he leaves is cursory.

The look in Deaton’s eyes had told him enough.

0o0o0

Stiles continues hunting.

On Friday he heads out to the club. The eyes that scan the crowd in search of prey are glossed over, thoughtless, unhurried and uncaring.

A large hand wraps around his wrist on the dance floor. The feel of fingers around that spot makes a shiver go down his spine, but he allows himself to be pulled back against the larger man. Fitting tight against him, the man allows himself full indulgence of Stiles’ body.

Stiles waits for a song to play through, for the sake of propriety, before he turns in the man’s arms, leans in and tells him to take it outside.

The man smells pungent, his odour thick on Stiles’ tongue as he buries his face in the man’s neck as he’s pressed against the now-familiar walls of the alleyway. 

The guy is rough. Like facial bruises and choking rough. Stiles is crying, but he likes it, wants more of it, and hates himself for that.

Only this time, he’s managed picked up the dangerous omega Derek has been tracking for the past three days.

A large part of Stiles isn’t surprised at his luck. 

The other part is still trying desperately to breathe. 

“Please--” He gasps out, feeling the sharp prick of claws against the skin of his neck. The sensation of droplets of blood running down his skin makes him shiver. His own black eyes look up beseechingly into the omega’s feral ice-blue gaze as the man smiles sadistically down at him.

“You look so pretty choking on my cock.” Comes the guttural response, punctuated by a sharp squeeze. “Was that please you begging for more?”

Stiles sneered, “Fuck you, you--”

The sharp push of a cock against his lips has his mind splitting sharply in two. He feels his mouth open, hunger making him salivate, spit pooling in his mouth as he feels the slick glide of the omega’s cock over his tongue even as he rages internally, wishing for nothing more than to push the man back and away. Stiles hands curl around the man’s hips, fingernails digging in viciously even as he drags him closer, choking off his own throat by forcing the man all the way down.

His snarl of rage seems to excite the omega even more as he strokes a clawed hand over Stiles messy hair. 

“You’re sure hungry for it, despite how much you bitch. What a funny little slut you are.” The man observes with a wry smirk, thrusting harshly into Stiles’ mouth. “I gotta say, I like a little feistiness in my fucks. Your alpha’s gunna be some mad when he smells my come all over your pretty fucking face though.”

Stiles whines at the thought of the man’s hot come on his face. He wants it in his mouth, he doesn’t want to waste it. 

Stiles is losing himself to the want of it.

He lets it happen, lets his eyes bleed black as he opens his mouth wide to take it, moaning into it despite the pain. Tears stream down his cheeks, but he wants it.

The cool summer air is rent by a terrifying snarl of rage. 

Stiles is shoved back sharply, and the omega shows his hand by emitting a bitten off whimper. His eyes flash blue as he stares in fear down the alley along the side of the club, freezing at the answering flare of red breaking through the gloom.

“Get the fuck away from him.” Stiles’ hackles rise at the sound of the sheer inhumanity of Derek’s tone, and the omega’s eyes seem to roll in fear when Stiles darts a glance at him. There is a constant thrum of violent threat lashing like an electric current through the air, tangible under the bassline rumble of Derek’s feral snarling. 

Stiles is sucking in desperate breaths, pressed tight against the cool, unforgiving bite of the brick wall behind him, watching entranced as between one blink and the next, Derek has the omega’s throat in his hand.

Stiles tears his gaze away, heartbeat stuttering harshly at the choked off gurgling of the omega’s breath, at the sharp crunch of broken bones underscored by the unmistakable sound of rending flesh.

A coppery scent fills the air, but Stiles is still refusing to look as he hears the body of the omega crash lifelessly into the ground not two meters from him. 

His eyes are no longer stark black, but tear-filled amber, blown wide and searching desperately in the dark of the alley, trying to come down.

The sudden touch of a warm hand to his cheek makes him gasp out, eyes snapping to Derek’s face as the man kneels down, and pulls Stiles close.

“I’m here, I’m here, shhh.” Derek is pressed so tight against him, cool and implacable despite the violence he had just enacted. Stiles melts against him. “I’ve got you.”

His sobs are buried into Derek’s leather jacket, his eyes closed tight, but not able to stop the tears. “F-fuck Derek. Derek, oh God, oh f-fucking God.”

“Did he hurt you, Stiles?” Derek is asking softly, his hands desperately sliding over Stiles’ body, looking for imagined wounds, “I swear Stiles, if he fucking hurt you--”

“You can’t kill him any more than you already did, Derek.” Stiles huffs out, his slight laughter tremulous and catching on unfinished sobs. “He-he didn’t really, I’m not hurt, I’m not--”

“Oh God, Stiles, please, please stop lying to me.” Derek begs, pulling Stiles’ face into his hands, eyes searching like a man lost. “Your heart, Stiles, your heart. You’re a terrible liar.”

Stiles gives him a small, broken smile, eyes fluttering when Derek presses his thumb against the corner of his lips. “It’s a force of habit, at this point.”

Derek’s eyebrows have drawn tight, marring his face as his expression turns dangerous again, but his eyes are still desperately searching for whatever it is the alpha might be looking for in Stiles. The teen tries to break away from that gaze, to hide from its scrutiny and keep the truth locked up forever, but Derek holds him still, hands gentle yet firm on his face.

“Tell me, Stiles.” He begs. His alpha is on his knees before him, looking so fucking broken, looking at Stiles like only he can fix him. 

Stiles bites his lip, feeling the slight burn of them after their earlier abuse, and wonders if he doesn’t look the same way to Derek right now.

He wants so desperately to be fixed.

“I-I’m different now,” he starts off, “but that’s probably obvious.” He gives a soft huff of laughter at Derek’s raised eyebrow, at the stark understatement of his words. “I... need to feed. Off of other people.”

Derek’s eyebrows draw down at this, his confusion evident on his face, “Stiles, you know I would let you--”

“You don’t understand, Derek!” Stiles interrupts, feeling fit to burst at the seams, the secret too mortifying for him to just say, but knowing he was going to have to tell Derek, to finally let him in on the truth.

Derek’s gaze softens, and his thumbs brush soothingly against Stiles’ skin. “Then help me understand, Stiles. I want to help you so fucking badly but I can’t if you won’t just let me in.”

“I’m so fucking hungry.” Stiles chokes out, shrinking in on himself. It had been too long since he’d last fed, and he can feel it behind his eyes, a pressure building up in his head that was begging him to just give in and take, to let his eyes bleed black and force Derek to press him down into the ground and fuck his face until he felt the alpha’s hot cum rush down his throat. 

He tries to push against the impulse, he really does, but when he finally opens his eyes again he breathes out; “You actually just ruined my last meal.” His eyes are so very dark and Derek is fully caught in his gaze. He lets his tongue run out over his reddened lips, his pulse pounding in his veins and his breath quickening. 

Stiles presses his hand to Derek’s abdomen, relishing the shiver of the muscles there as he drags the flat of his palm down to press haltingly at the front of Derek’s jeans.

Derek’s eyes widen in understanding suddenly, and Stiles feels the self hate and doubt rise up like bile in his throat, his eyes pulling away to stare at the steady rise and fall of Derek’s chest. 

But Derek is there just as quickly, and Stiles is cursing him internally as the man grips his chin so, so fucking gently and pulls his face up, looking unwaveringly into the unfamiliar black of Stiles’ eyes with nothing but pure understanding and want written across his features.

“I’d do anything for you, Stiles.” He promises, and of course Stiles believes him. The cooling corpse behind them is more than evidence enough of Derek’s promise. 

So he lets the boy kneel before him and wrap those already bruised and cut lips around his thick, hot length, lets him choke on the size of it, pets his throat through its fluttering as he tries too hard to fit it all inside of him, because Stiles is crying for it at this point.

He soothes him, running his hands through his soft hair as Stiles gets his cock so fucking wet, gets his lips stretched so obscenely wide around the thickness of him, and praises his sweet kisses and soft kitten licks, letting Stiles know just how good he is for Derek.

He lets the boy swallow him down and deepthroat his cock, taking him so goddamn sweetly with his mouth working hot and fast up and down the length until Derek is coming.

He lets the boy milk his cock of all that viscous and heady come until he’s sloppy with it, because as an alpha, Derek has a lot to give. Stiles is so fucking gone, eyes blacked out and mouth gagging for it, tongue tracing messily over his still pulsing cock to slide over his seeping slit, ekeing out a steady flow of the pearly white liquid until its slipping down his chin. 

And Stiles is whining because he can’t take it all, his mouth is too full but he wants it and Derek is shushing him, hands cradling his hands and face, pulling him back off his cock because Stiles doesn’t need to rush, Derek won’t leave him.

Stiles’ breath is heavy, his lips slicked with spit and come and blood and his eyes are only now finally back to that honeyed brown that breaks Derek’s heart because they’re so sincere and what the fuck had he just done.

“Stiles, fuck, Stiles.” He’s reaching down, pulling the boy up and into his arms, feeling him shaking and shivering, still not fully recovered from the omega’s rough treatment, from Derek’s rough treatment. Stiles clings to him, arms wrapped tight around Derek’s neck and Derek did this to him. One of his pack, a fucking child still, and fuck; “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Derek, you idiot.” Stiles whispers into the skin of Derek’s throat, breath barely caught, brushing softly against the hairs on the back of his neck and making Derek shiver. “I needed it. I wanted it.”

“Not like that.” Derek denies, shaking his head and clutching Stiles’ closer, wanting to be so much closer, to protect the boy forever but to tear himself away for what he’s done, for taking advantage when he clearly wasn’t in his right state.

“I want you.” Stiles bites out, pulling back and staring into Derek’s eyes, his own alight with a fiery conviction, with a truth and with a promise. “This whole time I’ve wanted you, because you mean more to me than this. I want you even when I don’t need it.”

Derek’s eyes go red with a snarl, able to sense the truth in it and unable to understand why. “Then why didn’t you come to me?”

Stiles shies away at the harsh demand, curling into Derek’s chest, his heart beat stuttering, his scent clouded with uncertainty. “I never thought you could want me back. I thought, if I told you about it, about what I’d become, you’d... let me, because I know you’re enough of a self-sacrificing fucking martyr to do that, but that you’d never want me the way I wanted you. I couldn’t do that to myself. It would be torture. Being able to have that part of you, but not all of you. So I hid it.”

Derek huffs out a sigh into Stiles’ hair, arms still curled protectively around the boy’s waist, caging him in. “We’re both idiots. But you definitely more so.”

“Well this idiot would really like it if you would kiss him. And possibly take him home.” Stiles still smells unsure, but there’s a spark in his eyes as he looks up at Derek, a slight smirk, almost confident stretching his lips. Derek watches him, eyes darting across his face, already drawing closer.

“All you had to do was ask.” Derek whispers, pressing tight against Stiles.

“Then consider this me asking.” Stiles snarks, arms looped comfortably around Derek's shoulders, leaning his weight against his alpha, because he trusts him to bear his burden. “For more. A lot more. Everything even.”

Derek looks at him, and for a moment Stiles heart stops, because fuck, his blue-grey-green eyes are filled with a painfully sincere promise when he says; “You can have my everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> I had originally written in my notes to write a little epilogue that was literally going to be just like a million words of porn, but in lieu of this having sat 90% finished for 2 years, I'm just going to post this essentially finished work, and maybe I'll add an addenda later (doubtful).
> 
> To get a look into the mind behind this shit festival I call an outline for fics, here is what I had written at the end to expand on:
> 
> "GRATUITOUS PORN – Stiles happy to be in a bed for the first time, Stiles as ass-virgin. Ass to mouth; felching, snow balling, knotting, fingering, facefucking, stubble burn on thighs, size kink, bruised lips, crying, begging, promises for eternity, biting, claiming, scent, idiots in love, blood play?, (non-con, dub-con, underaged, )"
> 
> How useless is that to work off of?


End file.
